


X-Files: Folie à Deux

by veecamaro3



Category: The X-Files
Genre: An X-File Case, F/M, I Want To Believe, TRUST NO ONE, The Truth is Out There, The X-Files References, The X-Files Revival, believe the lie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26370073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veecamaro3/pseuds/veecamaro3
Summary: Updated: 9/15/20 - Chapter 1 is officially done!!Kim Mitchell is a recent graduate of the FBI Academy. With her heart set on Violent Crimes, she tackles gory, gruesome murders with unmatched passion.She quickly becomes an expert in her field, helping to toss countless murderers behind bars, until one day she comes across a case that tests her knowledge and beliefs in anything scientifically sound.With her spotless record and immaculate reputation at stake, AD Kersh reassigns her to AD Skinner, who partners her with Special Agent Mulder as punishment for her insistence of something supernatural on a murderous rampage instead of the logical human.What was meant to be temporary penance turns into a full-fledged career as Mitchell and Mulder investigate the paranormal and the weird and the wonderful, and become more than partners.
Kudos: 1





	X-Files: Folie à Deux

**Author's Note:**

> Have you ever been so physically attracted to someone that it hurt to look at them for too long? Yeah, that's how I feel about Mulder. Hot DAMN he's so friggin sexy.
> 
> This X-Files thing is something I've been contemplating for about...a week. But I've loved the show for years.
> 
> For some strange reason, I was able to identify certain things or understand where something was leading very easily while watching X-Files, and I surprised myself at how much I was picking up. When I'd watch CSI or Criminal Minds or whatever, I'd try to act smart and guess things before the characters, and rarely was I right. So during this X-Files story, when I write interactions between Mulder and Mitchell about investigations on the show, it's following my train of thought when I watched the episode for the first time.
> 
> Enjoy!

_January 8, 1996_

Two weeks until graduation. This will be the fifth graduation I’ve attended in my life. High school, community college with a two year degree, university after I changed my major and graduated with a bachelor’s in forensic science and medical license, then another university to get certified in forensic pathology. The fifth one, however, takes the cake. The fifth one is graduating from the FBI Training Academy.

Did I plan to spend nearly ten years in college and not become a doctor, or something useful to the community, until I was almost thirty years old? No. But I never wanted to be a doctor. Save lives, heal people. That was my sister’s dream.

I like human anatomy and psychology. I like trauma and death, and the desires that drive people to murder another living being. In order to turn that into a viable career path before I had a mid-life crisis, I did some hard meditation and self-reflection. I bought a bottle of whiskey and spent eleven straight hours in the dark flipping through every single television channel until I had the realization that I could go into law enforcement. But I wasn’t going to settle for county coroner or local policeman. Nope, not me. I had to go all out. That’s how I landed myself in the FBI.

I lived a boring, cookie cutter life, which made for a spotless background check. I have no extended family, and my immediate family is gone. My dad walked out on us a few months after my sister was born and drank himself to death. My mom died of cancer when I was in high school. And my sister…I killed my sister.

Don’t go thinking I’m some crazy psycho. I already said I had a spotless background check. My sister and I were driving back from Vegas, celebrating her 21st birthday. I was tired, but I just wanted to get home. I stayed on the road, stayed behind the wheel, and fell asleep. We crashed into a big rig and rolled off a cliff. I lived, she didn’t.

So, that about sums up my life as briefly as I could get it. Let’s get on with the real story.

This week is all about guest speakers from various branches of the FBI. It’s supposed to give us green agents an idea of what we could specialize in, if we hadn’t already been groomed down a particular path. I planned to go into the Criminal branch and hopefully make my home in Violent Crimes Section.

The morning lecture was from Supervisory Special Agent Willis from the Human Resources branch, here to tell us all about what it takes to manage personnel and recruit new trainees. I tried not to fall asleep, as did half my class. We were dismissed for a much needed break after informing us that our final guest speaker would be Special Agent Mulder, with the X-Files.

“X-Files, huh?” Brady says as we trek out of the lecture hall. “Don’t suppose that could be any more interesting than human resources?”

“I heard he hunts _aliens_ ,” Carter responds, wiggling her eyebrows. “They call him Spooky Mulder. He believes in all that supernatural stuff.”

“Yeah, I think that could be more interesting than human resources,” Hooper muses.

“I think _anything_ would be better than human resources,” I point out.

“But come on, aliens?” Carter scoffs. “My brother’s heard some of the stuff this Mulder guy comes up with. It’s pretty insane. I heard they gave him an office in the basement just to get him out of the way.”

“To each their own,” I say, my mind wandering to the gory crime scene photos I had reviewed that morning over coffee and bagels.

After lunch, we begrudgingly make our way back to the lecture hall and resume our seats. My impressive powers of deduction tell me that the tall, dark-haired lanky man in a cheap suit talking to Ramin, the program director, is none other than Agent Mulder.

“Hmm, he’s kind of hot,” Carter whispers to me. “Too bad he’s a nutcase.”

I don’t respond. The hall falls into silence as Ramin addresses us.

“Allow me to introduce Special Agent Fox Mulder,” Ramin says with a gesture toward the other man. “He–”

Somewhere in the back of the hall, someone chokes out, _“Spooky Mulder”_ between a few horribly fake coughs, drawing laughter from most of the trainees. Ramin narrows his eyes at the group, but surprisingly, Mulder just smiles.

“It’s fine, Ramin,” Mulder says, then turns to us. “Yeah, Spooky Mulder’s my nickname. Don’t wear it out, though, I like to keep it for special occasions.”

I smile, and a few others snicker quietly.

“My reputation precedes me, apparently, so I won’t waste too much of your time.” Mulder pauses dramatically for a brief moment. “I investigate cases that are deemed unsolvable or unexplainable. Basically, cases with particularly mysterious or possibly paranormal circumstances that were left unsolved and shelved by the FBI.”

Another tactful dramatic pause. In this moment, someone asks aloud, “Why?”

I look around the room, as does everyone else, only I find that they’re staring at _me_. Crap, did I say that out loud?

Awkwardly, I clear my throat and scramble for words. “Sorry. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just…well, if the cases are unsolvable and shelved, why go through the effort?”

Again, Mulder just smiles. “Why not?”

I don’t have an answer to this. I sink back into my chair and pinch the bridge of my nose. _Stupid, stupid big mouth_.

“I’m not the first person to want to investigate these cases,” Mulder goes on. “The X-Files have been around since the early fifties, but somewhat forgotten until about six years ago, when I came across these weirdly fascinating stories…”

Mulder goes on spiritedly about UFO sightings, alien abductions, paranormal phenomena and the occult. He loses the interest of the crowd the more he talks, and eventually the two-hour lecture is cut down to just under forty-five minutes, and we’re released once more.

“That was painful,” Hooper says when we’re outside. “I take back what I said. I think I’d prefer human resources.”

“You’d better settle on something soon, Hoop, or you’ll end up working with Spooky Mulder,” Carter jokes.

“Maybe I’ll join Mitchell here in Violent Crimes.” Hooper slinks his arm around my shoulders. “We can cut up some bodies together in the morgue.”

I shrug out from under him. “You get queasy when you cut your finger. I think you’ll do good behind a desk.”

Brady and Carter laugh, while Hooper frowns, and then we part ways.

_Two more weeks_ , I tell myself as I head back to the dorms to change into a sweat outfit. I have to log some more hours at the firing range, and it will help to alleviate my anxiety.

I’m not anxious about graduating, per se…I’m more…eager to be done and move on with my life. The Academy has been great, but I kind of feel like I’m back in college, dealing with other people’s drama, on someone else’s schedule, learning new things instead of developing what skills I have. Two more weeks.

_January 23, 1996_

Those two weeks flew by! It felt like I literally blinked, and _poof_ , graduation day!

We’re graduating on a Tuesday. That’s so _random_. But it’s exactly 20 weeks from the start of the program for my batch of trainees, and the FBI is very punctual.

Tuesday morning. I wake up tired as all hell because I barely slept – too much on my mind. I sit on my bed and watch my roommates pack up their belongings. I did mine two hours ago, at sunrise, when I decided I was never going to get any rest.

Carter, Rainey and Mendoza chatter excitedly as they pack. They don’t speak to me, but Carter throws a few sympathetic glances my way. People learned pretty quickly that I was either in a talkative mood or I wasn’t, and even in my talkative moods I barely say anything. Carter could tell by my body language that this morning was not one for speaking.

Thankfully we are not required to wear graduation gowns. On our first day, a few of the older trainees joked and told us we all have to wear white gowns and a cap with the American flag on it. A few of us laughed uneasily, a few of the more gullible ones were horrified. Of those gullible ones, two dropped out of the Academy. Shocker.

So, sans graduation gowns, the dress requirement is either a pant-suit or skirt-suit in shades of navy, dark grey, or black. I have a dark grey skirt ensemble and choose to leave my hair down. We aren’t required to wear it up anymore, and honestly my scalp was starting to hurt from the tight buns. But over the last five months, my hair grew quite long since I was leaving it alone.

Once dressed, my roommates and I head to the back entrance of the auditorium to meet up with the rest of our class. 39 of us altogether. Even behind the closed doors, I can hear the excited chatter of the guests inside. Family and friends are more than welcome to come, but I have no family and no friends outside of the acquaintances I’ve made here at the Academy.

“Hey, Mitchell!” Hooper calls. He comes over and gives me a one-armed hug, which I don’t shrug off. It’s a special occasion. “You excited?”

“Excited to be done,” I say. “Are you?”

“Of course! We’re about to get our official badges! How rad is that?”

I smile. After a moment, when I don’t say anything else, Hooper grins and stalks off to his friends.

The doors open with a loud _clang_. Ramin appears, dressed smartly in a new black pinstripe suit, and instructs us to get in single file alphabetically. Once completed, he ushers us into the auditorium and makes us separate – one person goes to the left, the next to the right, and so on – so we flank the edges of the room. The crowd cheers and applauds, and a few people whistle. The trainees that recognize their family members wave and smile. I stare at the back of Lamburg’s blonde hair.

Ramin ascends the four steps leading to the stage and takes his place behind the podium. He taps the mic to test it, and the hall falls silent.

“Hello and welcome. Thank you for being here. Today is a special day as we initiate our trainees into the Federal Bureau of Investigation. After twenty long weeks of dedication and perseverance, the trainees are ready to accept their official badge and FBI credentials and begin defending our great nation.”

Polite applause from the crowd. I glance around. There are so many family members and friends here that there aren’t enough chairs and people stand at the back of the room. I scan the entire area until my eyes fall on one particular man standing near the right-hand side – the only person in the crowd I recognize. It’s Agent Mulder.

My heart skips a beat as we lock eyes. I look away so quickly I doubt he even noticed I saw him. It’s not that odd for agents to attend graduation. Some are mentors or related to the trainees. And we’re only in Virginia, so if they have nothing better to do, why not?

Ramin introduces the Director of the FBI, R. F. Goodwin, who will swear each trainee in and present them with their creds.

“Mary Buckner,” Goodwin calls.

Whistles and cheering from the crowd. Buckner steps forward and trips on the first step, rousing laughter from the crowd. She smiles sheepishly and takes the next three steps slower, then practically speed-walks toward Goodwin, her red ponytail swinging behind her.

“Raise your right hand,” Goodwin instructs her. She does.

“I, Mary Buckner, do solemnly swear that I will…” She stops, clears her throat. “Um, support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear…er…true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any metal – I mean, mental – reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.”

Goodwin smiles wanly before handing Buckner her blue bi-fold credentials and gold FBI badge. She and Goodwin shake hands, the photographer flashes a photo, and the crowd goes wild.

Not a strong start, but at least she has support. Our oath was something that was drilled into us as much as anything else since day 1, and something that I would often go over in my sleep and recite while I was in the shower or running. I don’t anticipate making a mistake.

Brady is next. He fist pumps the air when his name is called, jogs easily up the steps. He delivers his oath flawlessly, fist pumps the air again for his official picture, which provokes cheering, whistling and stomping from his loved ones, then fist pumps the air yet again as he descends the opposite side of the stage and takes his place at the end of the line.

With each passing graduate, my heart rate intensifies. Anxiety clouds my head, makes my eyes fuzzy, and I barely hear Goodwin call the next 20 people. Carter, Hooper, and Mendoza among them. I’m next, and suddenly I can’t remember a word of my oath.

“Kimberly Mitchell,” Goodwin announces.

There’s polite scattered clapping from the guests that lasts a few seconds, but I don’t move. Behind me, O’Neil gives me a light tap on my shoulder. Still, my feet remain glued to the floor.

“Kim, it’s your turn,” O’Neil whispers, and gives me a harder shove. The crowd laughs gently.

I’m not dying, but my life flashes before my eyes. All the mistakes I’ve ever made, back to my childhood. This is it. This is one of the final hurdles I have to jump over. Once I walk up there and say my oath, I’ll be an FBI agent. Tomorrow I start my job in Washington. All I have to do is _walk up the goddamn steps and speak._

Finally, I move. I hope my hesitation doesn’t present itself as fear of the commitment I’m about to make. I approach Goodwin, who doesn’t smile, and raise my right hand when he instructs me to.

I take a deep breath. “I, Kimberly Mitchell, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.”

To my surprise, Goodwin offers a slight smile as he hands me my badge and creds. I take them lightly, smile for the camera, and then notice Agent Mulder at the back of the room grin and clap loudly, startling those around him into applause. I cross the stage and take my place behind Mendoza.

Wilson is the last trainee to be called. Ramin makes a closing statement, which I don’t hear, and suddenly it’s over. I clutch my badge and creds so tightly I think I’ll break them, but I can’t stop. I’ve never reacted this way to anything before. What’s wrong with me?

The guests rise and mingle with the new agents. I hang back by the American flag next to the bottom of the stage and stare out at nothing until Carter runs up to me and hugs me tightly.

“We did it!” she squeals excitedly. “We’re official!”

I offer a half-smile.

“Are you okay? What happened to you back there?”

“No idea,” I say. “But I’m glad it’s over.”

Brady and Hooper find us and we all embrace.

“I’m gonna miss you guys,” I say suddenly, and their eyes widen. That’s probably the nicest thing I’ve said in the last month.

“We’re going to miss you, too,” Carter says. “I can’t believe you’re going to Washington. Not that many rookies get to.”

I shrug. I didn’t care where I went, but I did _not_ want to go back to the west coast. The memory of my family, my old life, is too strong there. I’m a new person, with a new future, and I want a fresh start somewhere else.

Carter and Brady are going to the Chicago field office. Hooper has a spot in L.A. I can’t recall which of the other agents are going with me to Washington, but I’m the only agent in this class going into Violent Crimes.

“Heads up, 5150 at 12 o’clock,” Carter whispers.

“Huh?” I say stupidly, then turn around. Agent Mulder approaches our small group.

“Congratulations, Agents,” Mulder says. “How does it feel?”

“Super rad,” Hooper says with a big goofy grin.

Mulder glances down at me. From this close proximity, I finally see how tall he is. Even in my sensible heels, the back of my head nearly touches my neck when I look up at him.

“Feels great,” I offer simply when Mulder refuses to look away.

Carter grabs Brady’s arm and wiggles her eyebrows at me, to which I frown. “Come on, guys, our family’s waiting for us. Nice to see you again, Agent Mulder.”

Mulder stuffs his hands in his pants pockets and smiles. Hooper still grins goofily at each of us as Carter and Brady walk away. Carter has to backtrack and pull him along.

“Speaking of family, yours is very quiet,” Mulder says.

I find this an odd thing to say. It was pretty obvious that no one in the crowd was cheering _for_ me, and I was very obviously standing with no one prior to my fellow agents. “I don’t have family.”

“No one? They couldn’t make it?”

My eyebrows pull together. I don’t know why his comment bothers me. “It’s hard for them to show up when they’re buried six feet under.”

Mulder’s face drains of color. “I’m sorry, I didn’t – I shouldn’t have assumed…I’m, I’m sorry.”

He seems sincere. I shrug. “It’s okay.”

I have nowhere else to go, so I don’t know how to get out of this conversation. Mulder doesn’t notice my disinclination.

“Where did they assign you?” he asks.

“Violent Crimes, in Washington.”

“Very nice! I did some time in Violent Crimes, actually, a few years ago. Right before the X-Files.”

“Really?” I look at Mulder with a funny look. “Why would you leave Violent Crimes for the X-Files?”

My disdain registers on his face. “You really don’t like the X-Files, do you?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“This is the second time you’ve questioned my work.”

I suddenly remember our last lecture and how I blurted out why Mulder did what he did, and my face gets hot. “Um, guess we’re even? Both said something stupid?”

Mulder laughs lightly. “It’s all right, I’m used to it.”

Another awkward silence grows. I wonder why Mulder is still talking to me. The crowd starts to disperse as the new agents head to the weapon’s vault to get their federal issued firearm. We have two hours to get our gun and belongings and get off campus.

“So, Agent Mulder, do you know any of the trainees?” I ask. “Are you here for anyone in particular?”

Mulder’s eyes scan the room before meeting mine, and he grins. “I just like to see the newbies. Reminds me of how far I’ve come.”

“When did you join the FBI?”

“1986.”

“How do you like it?”

Mulder grins again, and I think he must be a happy guy if he’s always smiling. I never smile. Or, rarely smile. “It’s got it’s perks.”

The room continues to empty, and briefly I feel like I won’t be issued my gun if I don’t go _now_ , and then I’ll be late to get my crap from the dorms and they’ll throw it all away.

“It was nice talking to you, Agent, but I need to head to the weapon’s vault,” I say.

“Oh, right, first firearm. Nothing like it. Now, _that’s_ what makes you official.”

I offer one of my rare smiles, for some reason, and then start to walk away.

Mulder reaches out and takes my arm. “Wait, uh, Kim– Mitchell.” I glance down at his hand and he releases me quickly. “Um, how about a celebratory drink?”

I could use a drink. But _why_ on earth is Mulder, of all people, inviting me?

“Sure,” I say, a little too quickly. “I’ll have all my stuff with me, though. I still have to go back to the dorms.”

“That’s okay. Meet at Starskies when you’re done?”

“What street’s that on?”

“F Street.”

“All right. See you soon.”

I leave the auditorium feeling strangely uplifted.

The issuing of our firearm and ammunition is a fitting final lesson on the seriousness and importance of our coming work – protecting lives, putting dangerous criminals behind bars, and safeguarding the nation.

I’m just excited to constantly carry a gun.

After I sign a bunch of papers, Agent Chu hands me a holster that I clip to my belt before gingerly releasing a new SIG 228 9mm. I cradle the beautiful gun for a moment before holstering it. Chu gives me a few extra clips and a large box of Winchester ammo and dismisses me.

I retrieve my suitcase and duffel from my dorm, which is empty. My roommates must have come and gone already. I don’t feel like lugging my crap down to Starskies, but it’s closer to the Academy than going home first.

When I arrive at the bar, I find Mulder at a table towards the back. I dump my stuff on the booth and fall heavily into it.

I observe the empty tabletop. “You didn’t order anything?”

“I was waiting for you. What do you want?”

“Mmm…Jack and Coke, please.”

Mulder nods and heads to the bar. He returns with two identical glasses a few minutes later and sets one in front of me, then resumes his seat.

“Copying me?” I ask lightly.

“It was a good choice.” He raises his glass. “To…I don’t know, graduating? The FBI?”

“To getting my own gun,” I say, and Mulder grins as he clinks his glass against mine.

Once again, a silence falls. We sip our drinks, occasionally make eye contact, then look away hastily. It’s time for a refill before we’ve said anything more.

“I can get the next round,” I offer.

“It’s okay. I started a tab. Same thing?”

I nod. While Mulder retrieves the drinks, I wrack my brain for something to say. I guess I could ask him questions about work, but I don’t exactly want to talk about aliens. I could ask him about Violent Crimes, or why he joined the FBI, I suppose.

“What made you join the FBI?” Mulder asks when he returns once more. He must have been thinking the same thing I was.

“I’ve always been interested in anatomy and forensics. I’m a coroner, but I never wanted to be _just_ a coroner. The police department seemed too…boring and simple. I had to aim higher. That led me to the FBI.”

“Why not be a doctor?” Mulder asks.

I shrug. “My sister wanted to be a doctor. She was more of a people person. I’m not.”

The edge of Mulder’s lips pull into a grin, and oddly I think he has a nice mouth. He takes a sip before asking, gently, “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to her?”

I attribute my calm demeanor to the one and a quarter drinks I’ve had. For some reason, I easily blurt out, “She died in a car accident in ’93.”

“I’m sorry,” Mulder says. I shrug again. “And…your parents?”

Now, I frown. “I’m not telling you my entire life story without something in return, buddy.”

Mulder laughs. “Okay. I had a sister, too. Samantha. When I was 12 she was abducted by aliens. She was 8 at the time.”

My jaw drops slightly. The nonchalance with which he dropped that bomb was…uncanny. As if he were telling me he ate spaghetti for dinner last night.

“Not what you were expecting, huh?” he asks.

“No, not really. But it definitely explains things.”

“Like?”

“Like why you went to the X-Files.”

Mulder tilts his head to the side. “You think I went to the X-Files to find out what happened to my sister?”

“Didn’t you?”

“I’ll need something personal from you before I answer that question, buddy.”

This time, I laugh. “Okay, what do you want to know?”

“Whatever you want to tell me.”

In the moment I take to think of what I want to say, I realize I kind of want to tell this man _everything_ about me. What the hell? Am I drunk already?

“My dad bailed on us when I was little and died of alcoholism. My mom died when I was seventeen of ovarian cancer. Your turn.”

“Geeze, you sure know how to show a guy a good time. Are we battling for saddest backstory?”

“Sorry that my life is so crappy. Yours, too, apparently.”

“Mine isn’t crappy. Crappy things have happened to me, though. But as far as parents go, mine are still alive.”

“Lucky you, but that’s a boring tidbit. I’ll need a little more from you before I go on.”

Mulder narrows his eyes, but it doesn’t last long before he replaces the frown with yet another smile. “I discovered the X-Files four years after I started at the FBI, around the same time I transferred to Violent Crimes. Whenever I had time, I’d read over the case files. I was so intrigued by everything, especially the alien abductions. Of course, I wanted to find out what happened to my sister, but I felt like all those secrets needed to be exposed, so I asked to re-open the X-Files.”

“Wait, what? What secrets?” I ask.

With a swift one-eyebrow raise, Mulder smirks and takes a long drink.

“Fine,” I grumble. “Um, I went to Stanford University, graduated with a B.S. in forensic science and my medical license simultaneously. Couldn’t decide what I wanted to do. Then I had to go to UC Davis to get licensed in forensic pathology. I didn’t work for another six months, because I didn’t know where I wanted to work or which field to choose, but my mom’s life insurance policy and the money I got from selling our house was running out, so I needed to make a decision fast. I chose the FBI. That enough? Can you tell me about the secrets?”

Mulder laughs. He seems to laugh a lot, and I don’t know why. I’m not funny. Sarcastic and blunt, yes, but not funny.

“I wanted to uncover the government conspiracy to conceal the truth about alien life, and find out what happened to my sister. I have yet to do either.”

“Government conspiracy? Why didn’t you say anything about that in the lecture?”

“Because I like my job.”

I shake my head. “That’s impossible. Why would the government hide aliens?”

“Why does the government do anything secretive? It’s obvious they lie to the public about plenty of things, so why not alien life? Abductions are real, and people have a right to know what’s out there.”

With a sigh, I down the last of my drink and tip the glass in his direction. “Want another?”

“Sure.”

I nearly leap out of the booth and head to the bar so quickly it makes my head spin. What the hell? Aliens and government conspiracies? Maybe Carter was right, this guy _is_ nuts.

I get two more Jack and Cokes, start a tab, and return to the table.

“So, I haven’t scared you off yet?” Mulder asks innocently.

“I left my stuff here,” I say simply.

Mulder clinks his glass against the one I set down in front of me, then takes a drink. “It’s your turn.”

“You barely gave me anything!”

“The quality of my information was equal to your story about college. It’s your turn.”

I groan and lean my head back against the booth. What facts about my boring life could possibly match up to the crusade Mulder’s on?

“You know that car accident my sister died in? I was the one driving.”

Mulder’s jaw drops.

“Quality enough for you?”

He takes a sip. “My first words were ‘JFK’.”

I let out a sharp laugh. “That’s funny, but not quality.”

“All right, then…Okay, here’s something. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve wanted a peg leg. I still do. I think it would have its advantages. If I had a peg leg or hooks for hands, other people wouldn’t expect me to achieve anything more than to simply keep on living, braving facing life with my disability. It would free up so much time.”

Again, I laugh. I don’t think I’ve laughed this much in a long time. Also, this is probably the most I’ve drank in five months. We weren’t allowed to drink alcohol in the Academy. I’m sure that’s a contributing factor.

“Your life definitely seems more interesting than mine,” I say.

“You’re just starting out. More things will happen. I mean, how old are you? 22? 23?”

I purse my lips knowingly. “Ha-ha. Trying to impress me? I’ll be 28 in October.”

“Really? October what?”

“October 13.”

Mulder laughs and hits his palm on the tabletop. “That’s the day I was born!”

“Yeah, but you’re like, 40.”

“Ouch,” Mulder says with a fake grimace. “That how old I really look?”

I take a sip of my drink and observe Mulder’s features in depth. Green eyes, brown hair, smooth skin, nice eyebrows, slim nose, slightly long youthful face. No, he doesn’t look 40.

Carter’s words from two weeks ago float in the front of my brain. _“He’s kind of hot. Too bad he’s a nutcase.”_ Heat rushes to my cheeks and my stomach twists into knots. Yep, I think he’s hot, too. Great.

“You look 32,” I offer generously.

“That’s better. I’m 34, actually.”

I nod. “Government conspiracy?”

Mulder shakes his head. “You don’t get to pick what I tell you. Maybe I have more amputation dreams.”

“But I don’t want to know about your amputation dreams.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. I didn’t always want to be a profiler in the FBI, which is where I started out. I wanted to be an astronaut for the longest time. My hero was NASA Lieutenant Colonel Marcus Aurelius Belt. I remember staying up all night when I was 14 to watch his spacewalk.”

“I remember wanting to be a whale trainer at Sea World,” I say abruptly. “I was obsessed with orcas. I still am. But then I grew up and learned how horrible Sea World is.”

“Why didn’t you go into marine biology or animal rescue?” Mulder asks.

I look down at my near empty glass. “After my mom died, I didn’t really want to do anything with my life. I almost dropped out of high school. My sister and I were underage and were almost split up into the foster system, because we had no living relatives. That’s when we discovered my dad had died years before. But the courts took forever to get situated, and we kept postponing court dates or incorrectly filling out paperwork to buy time until I turned 18, which was two months after my mom passed. It took me a very long time to get my life together. I went to community college because my sister begged me to do something. I took my time, spent two years there doing the general requirements. Then my sister graduated high school, and it was time for us to figure out what we wanted to do. We moved to California, shared a studio apartment near Stanford. She went to medical school while I started forensic science. Two years later she died.”

Mulder is quiet for a long time. He lifts his glass, takes a small sip, puts the glass down, parts his lips as if to say something, seems to decide against whatever it was and then takes another sip.

“Sorry,” I say sheepishly. “I honestly haven’t talked this much in…I don’t know, a year, maybe? You kind of forget what’s socially acceptable.”

“Everything you said was socially acceptable,” Mulder reassures me. “I asked, and you answered honestly.”

I nod. Maybe I’ll change the subject. “Where did you go to school?”

“Oxford. Got my bachelor’s in psychology, graduated top of my class, and started the FBI soon after as a profiler for the BAU.”

“Psychology? That’s pretty cool. I really enjoyed the psych classes I took in college. I loved criminal psychology, the mind of a serial killer, but I didn’t want to get stuck as a shrink, or a glorified shrink if I became a forensic psychologist.”

“So instead you became a glorified coroner?” Mulder asks with a grin.

I point my finger threateningly at him. “Hey. Watch it. I’m now a Special Agent with the Violent Crimes Unit of the FBI. I’ll be able to investigate murders _and_ do autopsies if needed. I can learn all the information first hand instead of reading about it in a report.”

Mulder chuckles. “That’s good. You’ll enjoy Violent Crimes, then.”

“Your turn,” I say.

He takes his time thinking of something. When he’s ready, he grins impishly. “I met a psychic once who told me how I was going to die.”

“How?” I ask unwittingly.

“Autoerotic asphyxiation.”

I let out a laugh so loud I draw the attention of the entire bar. But I keep laughing, until tears seep out of my eyes. “Are you serious? That’s amazing. That’s truly…wow.” I calm down and wipe my face on my sleeve. “God, that’s awesome. Is it hot in here? I think it’s hot in here.” Yeah, the Jack and Coke is really getting to me now. I unbutton my suit jacket and toss it to the side, then pull at my white tank top to filter air through it.

That’s when I notice Mulder’s eyes travel down to my breasts. I don’t have much to show, but I still feel awkward and cross my arms over my chest.

“Watch it, Mulder, or you won’t get a chance to die from autoerotic asphyxiation.”

His eyes snap to mine and he grins. “Another round?”

“Why not.”

“Your turn,” Mulder says when he returns from the bar.

“I honestly don’t think I have anything interesting left to tell you,” I say.

“Then tell me something boring.”

“Why would you want to know something boring?”

Mulder shrugs.

“Fine.” I bite my lip, then stop when I notice Mulder staring at my mouth. I take a drink and focus. “I lost my virginity when I was 15 and I haven’t had sex since.”

For the first time, Mulder tries hard to hide his smile. I scowl.

“Something funny, Mr. Death-By-Autoerotic-Asphyxiation?”

“Nope,” Mulder says, shaking his head. “I first had sex in college, and have kept it up regularly.”

I narrow my eyes. “Something about the last half of that statement seems off. I don’t believe you.”

Mulder scoffs. “What, are you a profiler now?”

“No, I’m just not stupid. And you look like a dork, and you believe in aliens and paranormal stuff, and that’s not something chicks usually ‘dig’.”

It takes a while for Mulder to react, and for a minute there I think I’ve finally offended him. But, to no one’s surprise, he just grins. “Okay, you got me. It’s been a while, all right?”

“How long?” I ask.

“It’s your turn.”

_“How long?”_

“A while!”

“Okay, okay. Geeze. Um…okay. I like to keep my toenails polished a dark green, in honor of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”

“Are you serious? So do I!” Mulder says.

“Shut up.”

The bartender approaches our table with two fresh Jack and Cokes, which he sets down in front of us.

“Oh, we didn’t order these,” Mulder says.

“It’s on the house,” the bartender says. “Heard you guys were FBI.”

Mulder and I raise our eyebrows at each other, then thank him. When the bartender walks away, Mulder mouths, _“Perks!”_ and I stifle a laugh.

“Round five, huh?” I say. “Your eyes are getting a little glassy there, Mulder. Sure you can handle another?”

“Are you sure _you_ can?” he counters, and takes a long drink. I reciprocate with an even longer drink.

“Tell me some alien stories,” I say.

“Wow, if a couple of drinks were all it took to get a girl interested in aliens, I’d have gotten laid years ago.”

“I voluntarily asked about aliens, but that doesn’t mean I’ll sleep with you.”

Mulder scowls. “It was a joke.”

“I know.”

He rolls his eyes. “All right, I have a story for you, then. But you need to spill one more thing about you before I let you in on it.”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “You know, I ran out of stuff to say about four turns ago.”

Mulder shrugs and smirks behind the brim of his glass, as if to say, _If you want a story, you’d better start talking._

“Okay.” I purse my lips together and make a squealing noise. “Oh, here. I still sleep with an ancient stuffed R2-D2 toy I got in like, 1979.”

“You’re a _Star Wars_ fan, huh?” Mulder says edgily, like saying the name _Star Wars_ left a bad taste on his tongue.

I frown. “Um, yes. Are you not?”

“No, I’m more of a _Star Trek_ guy myself.”

“What? You don’t like _Star Wars?_ How dare you!”

“Nope. Not my favorite.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not as realistic.”

I bark out a laugh. “And _Star Trek_ is? You’re an advocate for extraterrestrial life and you don’t think _Star Wars_ is as feasible as _Star Trek?”_

“No.”

I slump back in the booth and down the last of my drink. “Start talking about aliens real quick or I’m going to throw this glass at your head.”

“A tad violent, are we?”

I raise my glass.

“So, aliens,” Mulder says hastily. “You ever heard of Sioux City, Iowa? Lake Okoboji?”

“Lake Oko-what now?”

“Okoboji. Great for trout fishing, and a UFO hot spot.”

I giggle. He sounds just as ridiculous as he did two weeks ago.

“In August 1967, there were four UFO sightings, including one by a national weather service plane. One particular sighting drew my attention – a light blasted, digitally enhanced enlargement of a photograph taken by a girl scout with an instamatic. An incredibly detailed picture of a UFO.”

“Mulder, _UFO_ stands for ‘Unidentified Flying Object’. It’s easy for military craft to be unidentifiable by the general public. It doesn’t have to mean _outer space_.”

With a knowing smile, as if Mulder is very accustomed to this reception, he goes on. “Four of the nine girls in the troupe claim to have seen something that night, five if you include the den mother. The Air Force said it was a weather balloon caught in a wind shear, but there wasn’t a weather balloon launched that day within seven hundred miles.”

“That just tells me it wasn’t a weather balloon,” I say.

“But why would the Air Force lie?” Mulder asks. “Like I said, government conspiracy to hide the truth about aliens and UFO’s.”

I concede his statement and let him continue, after a refill. Number six, here I come. I’ll need it to finish this conversation.

“In ’93, Darlene Morris’s daughter, Ruby, was abducted during a camping trip. She and her brother were sleeping in a tent in front of the camper when she disappeared after a bright flash of light.”

“The bright light could have come from anywhere,” I insist. “If she was sleeping outside, anyone could have walked up and taken her.”

“According to the sheriff, there was no evidence of kidnap, no phone call, no ransom note. And the real kicker: no body.”

“You think she ran away?” I ask.

“I didn’t. The sheriff did. Apparently, Ruby had a history of running away from home.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” I say. “Lots of kids run away from home in the heat of the moment. They don’t concoct an elaborate plan to escape during a family camping trip.”

“Which is why I thought something was going on,” Mulder says.

“But still, it doesn’t have to be an _alien_ abduction. Someone perfectly human could have gone to the camp site and taken her without leaving a trace. Maybe they lured her out of the tent somehow.”

“Yeah, but at the forest edge, a few hundred feet of trees were burnt down to the trunk. Evidence of extreme heat searing away the tops of the trees.”

“Lightning? Electrical storm?” I suggest.

“Lightning wouldn’t turn the sand at the edge of the lake into glass,” Mulder says. “Sand solidifies into glass at 2,500 degrees Fahrenheit. Something was out there hot enough to turn sand into glass and singe the trees and blister the roof of the camper.”

After about a minute of silence, Mulder asks, “What? No comment? No outright denial of my findings?”

“Continue your story,” I prompt him while staring into my drink.

“Let me backtrack a little. Ruby’s younger brother, Kevin, was affected in some way after Ruby’s abduction.”

“His sister disappeared,” I say. “Of course he’d be traumatized.”

“That’s not what I mean. When I visited the Morris’s house, Kevin was sitting in front of the television, surrounded by stacks of paper. He was writing an endless series of ones and zeros.”

“Like binary?” I say, confused. “Why? Did you find out what it said?”

“I’ll say.” Mulder chuckles to himself. “I faxed the papers to a friend in the FBI, and the discovery attracted the attention of the NSA. They broke down my hotel room door and whisked me off to their secret facility when I wouldn’t tell them where the document came from.”

“Okay, Mulder, but what did it say?”

“Among the code was a fragment of a highly classified defense satellite transmission.”

My jaw full on drops. _“No…way!”_

“It wasn’t until I returned to the Morris’s house the next day that I realized something happened to Kevin that night Ruby disappeared. He was touched by something and became a conduit of some sort, connected to Ruby’s abductor.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one was home. It looked like they left in a hurry. Spread out on the floor was a ton of paper, seemingly endless binary sequences. On ground level it didn’t look like much, but from the second level looking down…it was amazing. It was a portrait of Ruby in binary code.”

“That’s incredible,” I say breathlessly.

“That’s not the most incredible part of it. My contact at the FBI scanned and analyzed the rest of the pages I got from Kevin the first time I visited. Binary sequence is basically digitally rendered information. They turned the digital code into data and it formed…things. Da Vinci’s _Vitruvian Man_. A piece from the Brandenburg concertos. A DNA double helix. Fragments of things, songs, notes, a line from the Koran, a sonnet from Shakespeare.”

“He was watching television when he was writing,” I say. “Snippets of random things, like flipping through channels.”

“Exactly,” Mulder says with an appreciative smile.

“You said he was a conduit,” I say. “What if he was literally receiving information from the television?”

“That’s what I thought. But the sheriff was insistent that Ruby ran away, ran off with a boy, and that would explain her disappearance, and whatever Kevin was doing had no correlation. The sheriff heavily implied that Ruby would sleep around, had lots of boyfriends.”

“Did she have a boyfriend at the time of the abduction?” I ask. Mulder nods an affirmative. “Did anyone question him? He could have easily done something to her.”

“Kind of hard to. We found him dead near the camp site.”

“Really?” I ask incredulously.

“I was approached in secret by a friend of Ruby’s, Tessa. Tessa said Greg, Ruby’s boyfriend, was supposed to meet Ruby at the lake. They needed to talk, because he had gotten Ruby pregnant. She said Ruby and Greg planned to skip town.”

I shake my head. “Something seems off. It seems a little too convenient.”

“Yeah, but that’s because you know Greg’s dead.”

“Who killed him?” I ask. “Did you find out?”

“Do you have an inkling as to who it was?”

“Tessa,” I say quickly. “She appeared out of nowhere, fed you a plausible story, but it was all a smokescreen, wasn’t it?”

Mulder nods. “Can’t give you all the credit for that, though, I basically led you to that conclusion.”

I roll my eyes. “Did you find Tessa? Arrest her?”

“Yes. As it turned out, it was _Tessa_ who was pregnant with Greg’s baby, not Ruby. She was hurt and jealous that Greg was still seeing Ruby. She knew Greg was going to meet Ruby at the lake, so she waited for them and killed Greg. Shot him in the back and buried him in a shallow grave.”

“That sounds more like a bad soap opera than an alien abduction story,” I say. “Why didn’t she kill Ruby, too? Or did she?”

“Tessa admitted that Ruby wasn’t there that night. I figured, Ruby had already been taken by the time Tessa and Greg showed up.”

“What did you do next?”

“Remember Ruby’s binary portrait? Darlene left the house unlocked, television playing, kettle boiling on the stove. I thought, Kevin must have had a vision, had an influx of data that told him Ruby was back, and he and his mother went to find her.”

“Lake Oko-boogey?”

“Okoboji. Yes. I went back to the camp site, found Darlene and Kevin. Kevin kept saying, ‘She’s back, she’s here’.”

A chill runs through me, and I shiver and rub my arms.

“You all right?” Mulder asks.

“Yeah, I don’t know…it’s a good story, I suppose.”

“Story? Mitchell, this really happened.”

“What happened next?”

“We found Ruby in the woods. Unconscious but alive. We took her to the hospital and they ran tests. No head trauma, no trace of narcotics or electrolyte abnormalities. Just a sky-high white blood cell count.”

I scrunch up my face. “Infection?”

“No. An attendant reduction in the lymphocyte population and release of glucocorticoids.”

“How long was she missing?”

“Just under a month.”

“Give me a minute,” I say, and close my eyes and wrack my brain for the medical knowledge that’s been submerged in alcohol. For some reason, I think of Mulder wanting to be an astronaut when he was a kid. “Spacewalk. NASA. It’s sustained weightlessness.”

“Correct. Shuttle astronauts reported similar imbalances.”

“So…Ruby was taken to…an anti-gravity chamber?”

Mulder smirks. “Or, she was inside a UFO, in space.”

I shake my head but I don’t argue. “Did Ruby wake up?”

“She did. When I questioned her, she said she wasn’t supposed to tell, that they told her not to say anything.”

“Who?” I ask fascinatedly.

“I don’t know. I never got that far. Darlene showed up and kicked me out of the room. She was happy she got Ruby back, but she didn’t want Ruby to go around telling stories of aliens and UFO’s, like she did when she was younger. She didn’t want a life of ridicule for her daughter.” Mulder drains the last of his drink. He smacks his lips, sets the glass gently on the tabletop. Then, he looks at me, sees me staring at him. “What?”

“That’s it?” I say. “That’s the story? What the hell?”

“What?” Mulder says again.

“Is that how all the X-Files investigations end? With more questions than when you started?”

“Basically.”

“I don’t think I could do it,” I say exasperatedly. “I couldn’t deal with not knowing the end, not knowing the answer. I need to solve the mystery, not add to it.”

Mulder shrugs. “That’s the price I pay. But I can’t give up. Eventually, it will pay off. I know I’ll find what I’m looking for some day.”

I don’t have anything to say, so I stare down at the ice melting in the bottom of my glass. Then I look up, look around, and the window to my left shows my reflection.

“Wow, it’s dark already,” I say. “What time is it?”

Mulder checks his watch. “A little after 7.”

“I think it’s time for me to head home,” I say. We’ve been talking for hours, and I hardly noticed. “I have a big day tomorrow. I need to hydrate and try not to wake up hungover.”

I grab my jacket as we rise from the table and head to the bar to pay our tabs. Then it’s back to the table, where I gather my things, and we head outside.

“I feel like a hobo lugging my stuff around,” I say as I glance up the street for a cab. Mulder just laughs. “Thank you, Agent Mulder, for the drinks and the conversation. I had a good time.”

“Mulder’s fine. And you’re welcome.” He smiles, but not his usual wide grin. More of a soft gaze and a slight smirk. “Enjoy the FBI, Kimberly Mitchell. I think you’ll do great.”

“Thanks.” I smile, and I wonder if I should shake his hand, or give him a hug. Instead, I hail a cab. Mulder helps me put my bags in the trunk, then steps back. I get in the back seat and direct the cab driver to Roseville, but Mulder taps on my window. I roll it down.

“Hey, Mitchell, one more thing,” he says quietly. He leans down, and I lean in, just enough to hear him say, “Remember, trust no one.”

I stare into his green eyes with confusion as the cab driver hits the gas, leaving Mulder in the rearview mirror.


End file.
